


time may change me

by caejones



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Punk, Angst, Character Study, Gay Joker, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Origin Story, Panic Attacks, Punk AU, References to David Bowie, Trans Male Character, batjokes will happen in this au just a heads up, drug mention, i guess??, its nothing super bad just pain killers, jokers origin story is enough to fuck anyone up this dude is suffering okay, music as coping mechanisms, nothing explicit just jack sleeping with assholes as a way to pass time, okay so this is basically an origin story for joker in my punk au, punk joker, trans joker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-29 12:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17203709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caejones/pseuds/caejones
Summary: Jack Napier is a name that will not be found on any records, a name known only to men who frequent shady bars across the state or crime lords who need someone desperate enough to work for near to nothing.Jack Napier has a face which has been reported as missing for almost three years. He is a man with little to his name save a stolen record player, a faded denim jacket, and a habit of getting himself into trouble.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! this is basically an introduction to my punk!rogues au, which has been floating around on my tumblr for a good while now but i somehow only just got round to writing something for. Fair warning, this is an au that will contain batjokes and harlivy so if u like. dont enjoy those pairings then maybe this isnt for you. Also, jack is trans because im trans and i love projecting on my favourite characters!

He’s in the hotel room when his phone buzzes.

 

He doesn’t hear it the first few times, too focused on the low hum of the radiator pressed up against his back and the melody of the Bowie record playing faintly in the corner, where is fathers vinyl player and his shitty speakers are balanced on top of a rickety chair, the denim jacket thrown onto the back of said chair coming precariously close to touching the disk.

 

On the third buzz, he snaps out of his daze and leans forward to grab the Nokia – a burner phone he'd picked up just before arriving in Gotham – from on top of the bed. He hadn’t realised how hot the radiator had been until the cool air hit his bare back, and he winces at the sting. There’s definitely some first degree ( _maybe even second degree?_ ) burns there. He probably shouldn’t take any more painkillers today, though.

 

He moves to close the window ( _Why did I open that in the first place?_ ) but pauses as the cold breeze from outside momentarily soothes the bruises – and burns – littering the pale expanse of his back. The light is on, and his blinds are open, so he should really put on a shirt. But for that moment the combination of soft music and the loud rain from outside the hotel calms him for the first time since his arrival in Gotham

 

_It’s always raining in this fucking city._

 

A fourth buzz draws his attention back to the phone in his bony hand. The pixelated screen shows four messages from a number he doesn’t recognise, but that’s not an unusual occurrence. Between his frequent trips to shady bars and his open willingness to do bad jobs for worse money, his phone numbers tend to make their rounds in whichever city he chooses to stay in. 

 

The first message is a simple introduction from his probable employer, but by the third the sender’s tone becomes more urgent and confirms his suspicions – he has a job tonight. It doesn’t sound too difficult, but the pay mentioned in the final text is high enough for him to doubt how simple the source has made it sound.

 

A quick glance at his cracked watch tells him that no, actually, he doesn't have a job tonight: he has a job in twenty minutes, in an area at least fifteen minutes away. _Shit_. He’s still a little doped up from the pills he took earlier – _this is what I get for taking jobs made for bigger men than me,_ he scolds himself.

 

He steps into the dingy bathroom to make sure he doesn’t look like a man who's spent the last twelve hours passed out in a shoddy hotel room in the worst part of Gotham, and grimaces at the sight in the mirror. Dark shadows make his already thin face look gaunt, and his sleep deprivation has lead to a scary resemblance to some kind of haunted house actor. He gathers some cold water and splashes it onto his face, a weak attempt at waking himself up from his disoriented state. 

 

Two cities over, there’s a white picket neighbourhood plastered with posters bearing this same face and the wrong name. 

 

If all goes well tonight, he’ll be able to afford testosterone for at least half a year. _Maybe Gotham will have more trustworthy dealers than the last city,_ he thinks before snorting at the idea.

 

Running across town means he can’t wear his already risky binder – a death trap made of clasps and straps that he’d bought off eBay for a couple dollars almost three years ago, on a credit card that only he knew about, whilst he’d still had a stable living environment. Instead, he scours through the collection of fabric inside the duffel bag which holds almost all his possessions to find the damned thing he’s looking for: a flimsy blue t-shirt bra bought for him when he was 15. The straps dig into the already raw flesh of his shoulders and the whole thing looks like it may fall apart at any moment, but it’s the only one he'd thought to bring with him. He had, admittedly, not always been the best at planning ahead.

 

His charming visitor from the night before – a burly man with rough facial hair, a heavy-handed demeanour and a nasty habit of calling him nasty names – had left his work fleece in his rush to leave that morning, and after throwing the giant garment on top of the Bludhaven College tank (a comfy thing he'd lifted from a rare kind his during his stay in the city) he can almost pass as the man his employers are expecting, regardless of the shape of his chest. He realises, though, that his hair (dyed temporarily a forest green in a futile attempt to distance himself from those posters decorating his childhood neighbourhood) could be an easy way to trace him if anything goes south on this job.

 

_There’s a beanie,_ he remembers quickly, _under the bed back in the main room._ He’d found it on his first night here, during his sweep of the room (he never did trust places like these - who knows where a camera could be hidden). A dusty thing left there by the previous inhabitant.

 

He retrieves the beanie, brushing off the cheap fabric and inspecting it for any glaring faults or stains. _It'll do._  

 

The room goes quiet for a half second, as the track switches from _Life on Mars?_ to _Changes_. A fingernail, painted a bright red that took at least five layers to stay a solid colour and yet still chipped off seemingly overnight, flicks the lights out. Another adjusts the equally red wool of the hat on his head. 

 

_If I time this job well,_ he muses as he chews the skin around his nail, the colour of the paint merging with that of the blood he has yet to notice, _I'll be able to catch the late night special about that hood gang._

 

He nods to himself, so-called evening plans sorted, and listens for the door to lock behind him. He strolls down the dimly lit corridor, pausing only to greet the stray cat that hangs around this floor of the building.

 

Jack Napier leaves his hotel at 11:58 p.m. on a Friday night, humming the Bowie song that is left playing in the dark room he has booked for the next week.

 

He leaves with a stolen fleece and a forgotten hat. Nothing in his pockets but the key to his room and a Nokia, filled with messages from an unknown number about a job with little details at the ACE chemical factory fifteen minutes away from his current residence. A job he is required at in precisely twelve minutes.

 

He leaves with no knowledge of the red hood gang, nor how they became so notorious that they deserve their own late night special.

 

He does not return for several days.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi so like i've not personally fallen into a vat of chemicals before but i can imagine it'd fuck with your nerves and your vision so like. I'm exploring that because it always bugs me when the comics act like joker didn't go through something that probably should have killed him.  
> I'm pretty sure this is a bit shorter than the last chapter but i liked how i left it

Shouting, then gunshots. A dark figure walking towards him slowly, the thick chemical fumes clouding his vision and distorting his thoughts. Metal pressed against his stinging back, before the barrier gives way and he loses his footing. A hand reaches out to grasp his own but by then it's too late and he’s leaning too far backwards and –

Falling.

Liquid engulfing him, his still unfocused brain taking a moment to process and then all he knows is pain.

Jack Napier’s world goes black.

* * *

 

 

He wakes, drenched in liquid. He feels it before he’s even opened his eyes, and when he eventually does so it doesn’t prove to be very helpful. The entire world is blurry, and he blinks a few times in a failed effort to focus his vision. He doesn't know if he's ever been able to see, but his gut is telling him that something has gone horribly, horribly _wrong._ His eyes sting like he’s been swimming in a chlorine pool for hours, but from what he can gather the water he’s sat in is fresh. It’s shallow and cold, but the parts of his that are exposed to the bitter air feel as though they’re on fire. He prods at himself with a sharp nail and discovers it sinks deeper into the skin of his hand than he's frankly comfortable with. Not to mention the unbearable pain that kicks in after a few seconds, like a particularly spiteful afterthought his nerves decided to throw at him.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there before he notices the mass of fabric covering his shoulders, although this is likely due to the fact that he can't actually feel the skin across his back. He gently brings his fingers to his neck, realising he's wearing some kind of sweater. He doesn't feel completely in control of his brain, let alone his hands, but he manages to slip them under the worn fabric the slip down the straps biting into the flesh of his upper arms. It takes a while for his fumbling fingers to locate the pockets of the large garment, and he winces each time a movement makes the raw flesh of his hands touch the waterlogged fabric any more than necessary, but he eventually retrieves a plastic rectangle.

 _Phone,_ his brain supplies helpfully. He can’t see much of the device, but he knows it came out of whatever happened to him worse off than he did.

 _And here I thought Nokia’s were meant to survive anything,_ his brain comments again, although he’s not sure where this knowledge comes from.

There’s still something in his pocket and another five minutes of grasping uselessly and then desperately trying to figure out what the object is, leads to him cutting the still burning skin around his fingernail - directly on an area which already felt more tender than the rest.

 _Key!_ He concludes eventually. _With numbers carved on it?_ There's a metal tag attached to it, as well, the kind that you find on hotel or apartment keys.

He doesn’t know where he lives. The realisation unsettles him, but not as much as the next one. He doesn’t know his name. A sickening jolt goes through his stomach at the thought, and he desperately scours his brain for any indication of a memory, an identity, anything.

It’s on the tip of his tongue, but his brain doesn't seem as willing to assist him with this detail.

He doesn’t know who he is. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know if people are looking for him, or if he has a home, or what happened to him to create this mess in the first place.

His only possessions are the clothes on his back, a broken Nokia, and a key to fuck knows where.

His body aches and burns and his scalp itches and he can feel his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and dirty water, and can’t even fucking _see._

Everything smells like chemicals. At first, he'd thought it was a smell coming from his surroundings, or one that had lodged itself into his senses during whatever incident that had stolen his memories, but the fabric he's wearing carry fumes that make his head spin and the scent is tainting his skin like a _disease_ , like it's a part of his _DNA._

He wants to cry, but in a cruel twist of fate it seems like his eyes are the only part of him that are dry because his tear ducts aren’t cooperating and then in an even crueller twist of fate the sky opens up and each raindrop feels like acid burrowing into his skin but he can barely move but the gravel is starting to dig into his hands and his thighs and he still doesn’t _know who he is_.

He vaguely recognises that his brain has done a one-eighty spin, straight from disassociation into the beginning of a panic attack. He doesn't know why he knows the signs, but he does and sits there for either minutes or hours whilst violent sobs wrack his body and he struggles to breathe through his swollen throat and the toxic fumes that hover over him.

The rain starts harder, followed by thunder, and he gets to his knees, gravel sinking into the flesh of his knees and he’s _past caring,_ he tells himself. It takes him a few minutes but he stands up on shaky legs and it only then that he realises his trousers must have caught and ripped on something because his legs are bare and – _oh it looks like I’ve caught and ripped on something too,_ he laughs humourlessly as he realises his legs are covered in cuts and scratches and blood.

He hobbles around blindly until he finds a solid wall, and further inspecting proves it to be a bridge or something similar. Collapsing down beneath the shelter, he draws the remains of the fleece around his shivering body.

His throat is raw, and an attempt at singing with a scratchy and high voice proves useless as he realises he doesn’t know the lyrics to the song rattling around his head.

He closes his eyes, and drifts into a fitful sleep whilst chapped and bloodied lips whistle a tune he no longer knows the name of.

_It’s always raining in this fucking city._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can chat to me on tumblr @tenement-funsters  
> comments are appreciated! i thrive on feedback


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the batman who actually cares for and about people is the only one that matters to me.  
> for reference, this is before bruce rlly starts the whole batman thing, he's still in his early "masked vigilante" phase.
> 
> In other news, I've started to put together a playlist for Jay, which is a combination of songs that remind me of him, songs he listens to in the fic, and whatever i'm listening to whilst writing this
> 
> [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/cae-jones/playlist/0eNqIzzLqsnL7ZW7OIPyiK?si=CfSNqWq3TMyWw6YouQSuHQ)

He's fully prepared to stay in that spot until he rots away, and with the mix of blood loss and the still prevailing stench of chemicals messing with his ability to think it feels like he’s already halfway there. He’s been passing time running through every song he knows, and some he used to but can no longer recall all the details of, but his lips are dry and he eventually resigns himself to mouthing half-remembered lyrics to show tunes. His throat is too sore to consider humming them.

He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness – whether this is due to genuine tiredness or his body’s current inability to function he can’t quite be sure – and somewhere along the way he’s lost track of time altogether. It feels like he’s been sat here for years. In reality, it’s only been a day.

He’s close to falling back asleep when he hears it. The crunch of boots on gravel and then a low voice.

“Are you alright?”

It’s deep and obviously being deliberately altered in some way, but the tone is friendly enough that he lifts his head in the direction of the stranger and attempts a weak smile. He hasn’t tried to use his voice since that first pitiful attempt at singing, but he clears his throat and manages a scratchy, “Just dandy, darling.”

He's not sure where the _darling_ comes from. A quirk belonging to whoever he used to be, maybe.

“Can you open your eyes?”

He wasn’t aware that they were closed, but he opens them anyway to find that it’s bright daylight outside. In front of him is a dark figure, but his vision doesn’t seem to have improved much with rest. “You're rather blurry, I'm afraid.”

He doesn’t know why he’s indulging this stranger, but he figures the situation probably can’t get much worse than it already is. The man asks him if he knows his prescription, to which he replies that he's  _quite new to this whole blindness thing, actually._

His visitor goes quiet for a few moments before kneeling down. He may not be able to see, but he can feel the stranger's eyes inspecting him for a second before he says, voice slightly softer than before, “You need medical attention.”

_No shit, Sherlock._

“Can you stand?”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer, either, but shuffles slowly to his knees and makes an attempt to get to his feet. He must look like he’s struggling _(he is)_ because a gloved hand is placed under his arm and another at his waist, and suddenly he’s stood upright. The stranger balances him against the wall of the bridge, and he winces at the sting left where hands had pressed the fleece into his skin. The garment is still slightly damp, but he’s discovered that he’s only wearing a vest underneath (the flimsy bra long discarded) and didn’t like his chances against the cold and rain of the night.

“If you come with me, I could get you some help.”

His stomach drops at that, for a reason he doesn’t quite remember, and he’s spitting out the words before he has a second to question why. “No hospitals.”

The man seems to regard him for a moment, before a hand is offered to him in a hauntingly familiar movement. “No hospitals.”

This time, he takes the hand.

* * *

 

 

He’s lead to what he can vaguely recognise as some kind of pimped out sports car, and placed gently in the passenger seat. The in-car heating fogs up his head in a pleasant way that brings back his earlier drowsiness, and he suppresses a yawn.

His companion starts the car, and it isn’t until they’re driving that he speaks again. “Do you have a name?”

_Of course I have a name, fucking idiot. I just can’t remember it._

He doesn’t actually want to reveal this weakness to the stranger though, and so he stays quiet whilst he thinks things over. He still hasn’t managed to remember anything about himself, but he’s convinced his name is something like Joe or Jim or Jerry or Joss or -

He realises he’s been silent for a long while and is tempted to throw out the name John just for anonymity of it, but he opens his mouth and instead a quiet “Jay” slips out. He’s not sure where that comes from, and he’s not sure that actually _is_ his name, but it feels right and it flows off his tongue nicely and he can find out who he used to be later, if need be. The other man makes a noise of acknowledgement, and the conversation dies there.

It’s still bright outside of the car, but he can’t see where they are or where they’re going. He’s tempted to ask the nice gentleman to _please, if you wouldn’t mind not murdering me, or at least getting it over with now so I don’t get my hopes up about this,_ but he’s distracted by something being placed in his hand.

A bottle of water.

It takes him a few attempts - with his unseeing eyes and numb hands - to get the bottle open and bring it to his sore lips, but the first few gulps of liquid are such a blessing he feels compelled to thank a god he doesn't believe in.

He’s suddenly, and not for the first time, overwhelmed by the situation he’s found himself in – alone with no idea of who he is, taking hand-outs from some complete stranger with a nice car and gloved hands. He wants to laugh, but he’s too busy trying to control his breathing. His tear ducts must have finally figured out how to function because suddenly there are tears in his eyes and he's blinking them back desperately because _fuck that,_ he's not crying in some random guys car over a fucking bottle of water.

_Haven’t had this many panic attacks in years._

He doesn’t know where the thought comes from, but it unsettles him more than the complete lack of memories ever could.

The voice in his head sounds different to the one that comes out of his mouth, smoother and lower in pitch and he briefly wonders if it's a voice that was once his own or that of some forgotten friend, but now his brain is back on that path of _what-ifs,_ so he uses that scratchy tone anyway to ask his companion to turn on the radio because _boy is it quiet in this car, can’t be having that can we?_   and because the silence is itching at his skin worse than his chemical stained sweater and he needs something to distract him before he pulls all the hairs out of his scalp one by one. His fingernails are digging into his bare knees but he can't find the energy to remove them, only to dig them deeper, and he can feel the blood welling around his fingers and his flesh screaming at him to stop but suddenly there is noise coming from the speakers and he can breathe again, just a little bit.

The music on the radio is too loud and poppy but the man driving switches the channel to something quieter and _well, it’s not what I would have picked but it’ll do._

He doesn’t know what music he likes, but this stuff sounds classical and it calms him enough to make his hand unclench from his hair _(when did I do that?)_ and his breathing slow down, so he shoots what he hopes is a grateful smile at the man who might not even be looking.

He sits, breathing still heavy, for some time before exhaustion overtakes him and his eyes drift closed to the quiet sound of violins and the purr of the car, and it’s the safest Jay's felt since he first woke up in that pool of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat to me on tumblr @transguy-kravitz  
> comments are appreciated! i thrive on feedback

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is tenement-funsters if y'all want to come talk to me about this au or like anything else lmao


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